


The Meeting

by Aard_Rinn



Series: Crime in Crystals [12]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Organized Crime, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aard_Rinn/pseuds/Aard_Rinn
Summary: One rainy night in Praxus, a medic meets a killer.It's a long time before he sees him again.
Series: Crime in Crystals [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749994
Comments: 83
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

“Fix him.”

The threat in the words makes Ratchet freeze - he doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch, as the rain-soaked mech shoulders his way past him into the clinic. The mech is dark-plated, red-opticked, field tight to his body - but Ratchet pushes all that out of his mind at the sight of the smaller frame hanging limply in his arms.

He turns to follow as the dark mech dumps the frame into one of his medberths, and is met by the barrel of a gun.

“Hey, put that -” _away,_ he wants to say, and his empty hands are already rising when the dark mech cuts him off.

“Fix him or I’ll kill you.”

There’s no room for negotiation in the dark mech’s tone, but Ratchet has no intention of arguing. “Alright. Don’t shoot me.”

He steps forwards, reaching down to adjust the limp frame on the berth, and the barrel of the gun doesn’t waver - it does, mercifully, drop just slightly from his spark. By the time he has the injured mech on his back -

\- well, any mech could see that it isn’t good. He doubts the dark mech needs a medic to tell him that.

Still, he isn’t going to give the injured mech up without a fight, regardless of the gun pointed at him. Here in his own clinic, with his crisis equipment close at hand - there’s a chance. Not much of one, but… a chance.

And then he shifts the damaged frame again, trying to get the clips in to begin spark support, and overheated energon gushes over his hands, and he realizes that there was never any chance at all.

The wound is - awful. Deep and raw, with the tell-tale scarred protomatter of a plasma blast - protomatter brittle enough to crack and leak, once shifted, but melted by heat to hide the carved-out gouge of slagged metal and crystal that cuts its way with cruel finality through the mech’s spark chamber.

It’s not a lethal wound. Or - shouldn’t be - if the dark mech had gotten his - friend? - to a hospital, it wouldn’t be, not with extensive spark support, a spark confinement casket - the spark itself is undamaged, a quick check confirms that -

\- if Ratchet were at Praxus General, and not here, the mech beneath his hands would not die. But, then, if the dark mech could afford to take his friend to Praxus General…

He cleans up the injury, stops the leaking energon, even knowing that it’s futile. Runs a line of lanthanum, too, though there’s no way the mech is alert enough to feel pain - the wound is catastrophic, and even without cabling in, Ratchet can tell that it’s enough to have put him into forced autonomic shutdown, devoting every resource it can scrounge to regularizing spark cycling. It makes him look busy, though - and by the time he looks back to the dark mech, injured frame stabilized-but-dying beneath him, the gun has lowered to the ground.

And the dark mech looks lost, and very, very young.

“What’s his name?” Ratchet asks, softly, testing the waters.

“Rico,” the mech answers absently, optics locked onto the wound - then flicking up to Ratchet. “I mean - Ricochet.”

“And yours?”

“Uh -” The mech’s optics widen, as if he’s not sure if he should lie or not - but then they flicker down to the injured frame again, and he seems to sag. “Jazz.”

It sounds honest, and Ratchet nods. 

“He’s - stable, Jazz.” He steps away from the frame, runs his hands under solvent to get the worst of the slurry of coolant, energon, and ruined protomatter off of his fingers. “Would you sit, please?”

The mech hesitates again, and then shakes his helm. “Can I -” He gestures wordlessly at Ricochet, and when Ratchet nods, steps over to take his hand with desperate care, fingers wrapping gently around the limp palm.

“Is he your…?” He leaves the question deliberately open ended, and when Jazz answers,

“Brother.”

he isn’t at all surprised.

“That injury…” Ratchet hesitates, but there’s no dodging the truth forever - and here, like this, Jazz doesn’t seem like much of a threat. He looks - Ratchet examines him with a critical optic, only briefly, but… he looks like he already knows what Ratchet has to tell him. “I’m sorry, Jazz.” 

He reaches out to touch the dark mech’s shoulder - but Jazz hisses in pain. Doesn’t pull away, but Ratchet _feels_ his field spike with aggression that’s just as quickly swept back away by grief in the moment before his field reigns in. “You’re injured -”

“It’s not important,” Jazz replies, a finality in the words that’s enough to make Ratchet drop it.

“He’s not hurting.” He’s had this conversation a hundred hundred times, and the truth is, it _does_ get easier. “He isn’t aware of where he is, but he’s not in any pain.” There are words to say, right ones and wrong ones, and long experience has made picking the right ones second nature. “His spark knows you’re here. You’ll have as long as you need.” 

What doesn’t get easier is watching the way grief breaks the face of a grieving mech. 

“He - could I have…”

“There was nothing you could have done. I’m sorry.” Knowing the right lies comes easily, too. “Even with the best care on Cybertron, with a wound like that… It’s not the sort of thing that can be fixed.”

Jazz stands silent, at the berthside, for a long, long moment, optics dimmed. He’s holding his brother’s hand so tight that Ratchet can see the joints strain and warp - his other hand is clenched in a fist around the grip of his gun at his side, and Ratchet can hear the metal creaking. Jazz spits soft static, and then his vocalizer clicks in reset as he looks over at Ratchet again.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t touch Jazz again, but nods, pushing sympathy into his field as he does.

Jazz nods, too - raises the pistol, presses it to the metal over Ricochet’s spark chamber, and fires down into it.

There’s a blue flare, and the crack of the gunshot, and Ratchet yells in surprise and alarm. 

Fortunately, the dead mech’s frame is enough to prevent the bullet - or the shrapnel from his spark casing - from ricocheting around the room, and Ratchet is already running desperately through triage techniques before he stops himself, clamping down on a field medic’s protocols - and raising his hands in deference to the still-armed mech in front of him. “What -”

Jazz turns, though, and there’s no aggression in his frame whatsoever - just a bleak defeat in his gaze. He sees Ratchet, plating flared, hands up, and seems to take a moment to register what he’s seeing - “I should go.”

Ratchet should _let_ him - but despite the gun, the dark mech is still injured, and at the end of the cycle, it isn’t _that_ big a gun. He steps in front of the door. “Wait - let me take a look at that shoulder.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jazz subspaces the gun, and steps forwards, but even as lithe as he looks, there’s no way he’s pushing past Ratchet. “It’s - not an issue.”

“It is an issue,” Ratchet insists back. “Just - it won’t take very long, mech. We can go in the other room, if you prefer. Just give yourself a moment.” The mech seems balanced, but it’s balance on a knife’s edge - he’s seen it often enough. The grief will hit, and when it does, it will knock him over like a wave on the Rust Sea.

But Jazz shakes his helm.

“It’s not going to matter.” Ratchet doesn’t move, and Jazz steps forwards again. “I’m gonna go kill th’ slagger that did this to him, an’ - an’ I don’t ‘spect it’ll matter, after that.”

Ratchet lets out a long, slow vent.

It’s suicide - even without knowing who’s responsible, the look in the dark mech’s optics is enough to tell him that. He’s seen it, often enough, on the battlefield - the wounded, destructive fury of a grieving amica or conjunx or _friend_ , charging the enemy lines for one last battle from which they won’t return. Jazz has the look of a mech who won’t be dissuaded - the cold, set look of a mech who can’t be turned away.

“Let me take a look at that shoulder,” he offers, again. “Don’t throw your life away. You’ll have a better chance at the mech who killed him if you’ve got both arms.”

Jazz’s field teeks, just for a moment, with a flicker of surprise that’s just as quickly blotted out. He’s silent for a long, long moment - then he nods, stepping back to slide up onto the edge of the second medberth. He doesn’t protest when Ratchet begins removing his armor, or try to talk when he pulls out a long set of pliers and starts bending the warped ratchets back into alignment.

It’s Ratchet who cracks first, from the silence.

“You didn’ have to - I would have…” He goes quiet, for a moment, trying to figure out how to phrase it, then gestures at the body. “Taken care of things.” 

“I couldn’t ask you ta.” Jazz doesn’t meet his optics. “I got ‘im killed. Was only right I finish th’ job.”

“You couldn’t have done anything more -” Ratchet protests, ready to argue away whatever self-recriminations his _living_ patient has come up with before they can take root, but Jazz shakes his helm. 

“They shot ‘im ‘cause I fragged up.”

_Oh._

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I fragged up - missed my shot - an’ Euclase -” His voice crackles. “Said tha’ he’d give me a reminder of wha’ it looked like when a mech didn’ miss -”

“Primus.” A screw slots back into place with a little poke from the pliers, and suddenly Jazz’s arm sinks about four inches and slots back into its track. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Jazz replies, testing the arm, then letting it drop, and meeting Ratchet’s optics. “Him an’ as many of ‘is mechs as I can get my sights on.” 

_Until one of them gets me_ goes unspoken, but Ratchet nods, anyways, and helps Jazz latch his armor back into place in silence.

The dark mech rises back to his pedes silently, too, and Ratchet hesitates for just a moment longer before letting him lead the way back out to the front. Jazz steps out into the rain and leans his helm back - lets it cascade down his face for just a moment before turning back to Ratchet.

“Here.” Jazz offers him a cred chip, pushes it into his hands, and Ratchet shakes his helm.

“You don’t owe me anything -”

He tries to give it back, but Jazz shoves it back insistently. “No - it’s yours. Please.” There’s something awful but desperate in his voice, at that, and Ratchet stops just long enough for him to skitter away, leaving the chip. “I’m - after tonight, it’s not like it’ll do me any good. Just - thank you.”

“Good luck, kid.”

Then he’s gone, armor melting away into the rainy city darkness, and Ratchet stares out after him for a long breem before making his way back into the raw light of the clinic, and to the body still limp and grey within.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place around five centivorn after the last chapter.

The smell of spilled energon is not one a medic of any experience can mistake.

Energon takes on a different note, once it’s travelled through a mech’s lines - a distinctive alkalinity as charge runs through it in a mech’s systems, as it’s purified and supplemented through a living frame’s filters. The mech’s precise coolant intake, how long it’s been since they’ve had an oil change, whether they take just energon or if they drink enerjex regularly - with enough experience, it’s possible to discern all of the little details with nothing but medic-grade chemophores.

Ratchet is a very experienced medic.

That’s why, when he opens the clinic doors, the unexpected scent of fresh-spilled energon is enough to set him on edge. It’s a current bleed, the most volatile scents not yet offgassed like they would be from an old spill, but the clinic is dark and still - it’s early morning, the sun not yet risen over the city skyline.

Ratchet doesn’t bother slinking about - he turns the lights on, and is met with destruction.

 _Not,_ he realizes after a klik, the deliberate destruction of a mob ransacking, or even the haphazard looting of thieves. Nothing in the main room seems missing, at a glance - not even the credchits in the open drawer of his desk.

There’s a smear of energon still faintly glowing on the storeroom door, though - and a crack. Deep and gouged against the metal, as if someone had slammed into the door, tried to force their way inside.

Ratchet debates his options for another klik before making his way deeper into the clinic. 

It’s as he pushes into the back area that he hears it - the unstable click of fans knocked out of their brackets, and the soft armor-on-armor scrape of a mech. The smell of fresh energon is strong - really fresh: an active bleed, at least.

He rounds the corner into the treatment room and freezes at the sight of an instantly-recognizable, dark-armored mech shoving raw gauze into a gaping gunshot wound in his chest.

“Jazz?”

The mech reacts - slowly. Almost sluggishly, and Ratchet has his hands in the air before he can even get the gun trained on him. “Stay there!”

“I’m the medic.” Jazz - _should_ recognize him, but Ratchet is already cataloging injuries, and there’s a _lot_ of missing energon - the way Jazz’s optics are flickering, there’s no guarantee he can even _see_ \- “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jazz hesitates for a long, long moment - then shakes the gun. “Fix me, or I’ll shoot you.”

“Sure.” Ratchet steps forwards - the gun wavers in Jazz’s hands, but he’s not shooting, yet; doesn’t even have it trained on anything vital, and Ratchet is growing more sure by the klik that he’s blind. “Can you put that down, kid? I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jazz gives a harsh, hacking laugh, but the gun doesn’t drop -

Then Ratchet explodes forwards. He’s done this before - more often than he likes - and he shoves past the gun, so that by the time Jazz squeezes off a shot it’s into the wall behind him and he’s got the arm at his side. Slams his own arm down, trapping it - his other gropes for the med-access port on the back of Jazz’s neck, forces it open even as he uses the trapped arm to pull him off-balance -

Jazz is slumped, limp and dark, in less than a quarter-klik, and Ratchet huffs a vent and sets to work.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ratchet can tell when Jazz starts to wake up, processor overrides dragging him back towards conciousness while Ratchet's halfway through knitting the torn mesh of his protoform back together - it’s the same moment he starts to panic, a hot, itchy buzz in his field that doesn’t subside when Ratchet presses back at it with his own calm. He takes a moment to debate administering a sedative - 

And reconsiders a moment later when Jazz comes fully online, and panic turns to real, honest terror.

The dark mech tries to say - _something_ \- but the words, whatever they are, dissolve into nothing but a frightened shock of static as he starts to fight the restraints, thrashing against the magnets of the berth. It’s obvious that he’s _afraid_ , deeply and truly, and Ratchet can’t do anything but get a hand on his chest, right above the still open plating, and pin him, force calm into his field and yell - 

“You’re safe, Primus damn it - safe! With a medic!” Jazz thrashes again, and Ratchet scrambles for his open wrist port, cables in - ::Safe! You’re safe - Designation: Ratchet; Medic, calm down -::

The blat of his medic ident codes, at least, has the desired effect - Jazz goes stiff and still beneath him - but the panic doesn’t fade.

“Pl-lease -” Jazz’s voice is static. “Pl-lea-ase - don’t let them -”

::No one is doing anything, kid. Follow me down -:: Even as he’s saying it, he’s groping for the energon drip -

The first hit of ferrocyanide doesn’t take long to kick in at all, and there’s nothing Jazz can do after that but slip smoothly back offline.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hangs back when he next brings Jazz online - keeps his field in tight to his frame, and lets the dark-armored mech come online slowly and alone. It’s only once Jazz’s field starts to reach out that the other mech registers his presence - and even so, he can feel the way sudden terror curdles the younger mech’s field.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Ratchet offers, softly. “You’re safe.”

Jazz laughs again. It’s a bitter, rasping sound.

“Whatever -” He chokes on the word, a little. “Whatever they’re gonna pay you, doc, it ain’ that much more fer me alive than dead. I’ll make up the difference if you kill me now, an’ it’ll be safer than riskin’ me gettin’ away -”

“I’m not turning you over to anymech, either, kid.” He takes another step forwards, lets Jazz get a look at him, a hand stroke soothingly at the younger mech’s shoulder. “You’re safe. No one is going to get you. I don’t let anymech hurt my patients.”

The dark mech hesitates. “You jumped me.”

It’s Ratchet’s turn to laugh in disbelief. “You _were holding me at gunpoint._ ”

“I wouldn’ have shot you!” Jazz protests. “I just - if anyone was watching, if they thought you knew me -”

It’s enough that something clicks into place in Ratchet’s processor. “A lot of mechs want you dead, then?” He pauses, trying to figure out how to ask - “What’ve you been up to since we last met, kid?”

Jazz hesitates, again - when Ratchet undoes the magnetic restraints, he pushes himself up on his shoulders, staring down at his neatly-repaired frame. “You haven’t heard?”

“I’m a curmudgeonly old mech who keeps to myself.” Ratchet shrugs. “Enlighten me.”

“I -” But Jazz’s field flickers with uncertainty. “I shouldn’t -” 

“You back to killing mechs?” Ratchet pushes bluntly ahead. “Take out somemech you shouldn’t have?”

Jazz’s optics widen. “Um - yeah.”

“Hmph.” Ratchet shrugs - forcing nonchalance into the gesture - and turns to a side table to grab a cube of energon. “Fair enough. Hope it paid well, at least. Drink.”

Jazz does - gulps the fuel down like a half-starved mech. He’s halfway through the cube when Ratchet pulls it away, not eager to clean up refluxed fuel. “Doesn’ pay slag. I’ve been gettin’ by.”

“Really?” Ratchet gives him a surprised look. “A friend of mine used to say that killing was always good creds -”

“It is. If you’re gettin’ paid.” Jazz glances away, not meeting his optics. “I’ve been… working for myself, some. After Ricochet -”

He breaks off, but Ratchet doesn’t push him, just presses comfort into his field, and turns the younger mech’s words over in his processor until something clicks. “Working for your - you’re Meister.”

Jazz flinches as if expecting a slap. “Yeah.’

“Primus, kid.” Ratchet hesitates. “You’ve been doing some… good work.”

That gets him a soft, surprised noise, and Jazz’s gaze flicks up. “What -”

“Cinnebar was a nasty fragger. Sent more than a couple mechs my way. Not always in any kind of condition for me to help.” He reaches out and rubs at Jazz’s shoulder soothingly, then offers the cube again. “Taking her off the streets - you did some real good, there.”

“It - after Euclase…” There’s a broken tear to the younger mech’s voice. “It seemed like the right thing to do. I didn’t think I was going to -”

\- _survive,_ he doesn’t say. _Make it long enough to matter._ Ratchet knows the feeling.

“I suppose I don’t have to _yell_ at you for such shabby maintenance, then,” he offers instead, filling the gaping silence. “I changed your oil and refreshed your coolant while you were out, by the way. You _need_ to make time for _at least_ an ornly maintenance check, kid - I know, I know, medics harp, you know a mech who _swears_ he’s gone a millennia between changes, but you _don’t_ know any of the mechs who died of pump failure because _they’re dead_.”

“I don’t have any money -”

“Then you come here.” Ratchet squeezes lightly at the younger mech’s shoulder. “That chit you gave me - anything you need, you come here, and next time you don’t bother with the gun. I can take care of myself.”

“It’d be safer if they thought I forced you -”

“I’ll be fine, kid.” He pushes assurance into his field. “You did a lot of good with that chit, you know?” 

That sends a scatter of curiosity through Jazz’s field. “Really? I mean - it helped?”

“I got a spark casket. It wouldn’t have helped your brother, but - a couple of mechs have gotten to go home because of it. And any kind of spark repair is safer if you can extract the spark beforehand.”

“Can I -” A pause, and there’s something needy just below the words. “Can I _see?_ ”

“Sure.” He helps Jazz carefully to his pedes - the mech is spry, but it’s obvious that even he is surprised how much the fresh oil is helping, and something medicish in Ratchet’s chest purrs in satisfaction - and guides him to the casket. He keeps his voice gentle as he explains the device, spreads it open so he can show Jazz the parts, as if he was a student - and there’s a reverence in the younger mech’s touch when he, hesitantly, runs a hand across the smooth frame of the shell, the laser-etched name Ratchet knows he can't read.

Then his fingers draw back almost meekly, and he glances away. “I should go.”

“Wait -” Ratchet replies, on instinct as much as anything. “You’re still healing.” And there’s no place in the city that’s safe, not for a mech with a reputation like Meister’s. “I’ve got a cot in the backroom, and the door locks - you can get some recharge, let the nanites finish stitching you back together a bit. There’s fuel back there, too - you can top up before you go.”

“I shouldn’t -” But it’s obvious that the promise of safe rest is making him hesitate - Ratchet’s been a gutter medic long enough to know that it’s a keener temptation than energon in the slums, and harder to get, most of the time. 

“Just a couple of joors. I’m not going to try to hold you down, but…” He doesn’t elaborate - Jazz knows as well as he does how serious his injuries were - and after a moment, the mech’s resistance breaks down. 

“Thank you - I won’t make any trouble.”

“Didn’t think you would, kid.” He gestures Jazz into the room, getting him down a cube before locking the door, and, to his credit, there’s not a noise from the younger mech for the rest of the cycle. Even so, it doesn’t surprise Ratchet at all when he ushers out his last scheduled patient of the cycle, goes to check on Jazz, and finds the window open and the hitmech gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been a good girl! I did not hit 2k words this chapter.
> 
> Also hey! :D Sorry for vanishing again - I had teeth. Now I have less teeth! It was awful. The end.
> 
> J/K but yeah. Wisdom tooth extraction means I spent almost a whole week getting no sleep - I literally didn't get to sleep before 5am for a week. And then the last few days it has been tasty tasty codine, so I've been sleeping, mostly. Today I felt better-rested than I have in like a month, and the worst of my at-the-moment stresses have been taken care of, so I'm back in the swing of things!
> 
> So, yeah - the story. At this point, Jazz has gained some notoriety as Meister - both Prowl and Bumblebee have incorrectly placed him as being active for around two centivorns. Really, I should have made that longer - around five - and will in earlier chapters, but in reality he's been active for almost a millenium. At this point, though, he's a small fry picking on small fry - he killed Euclase as Jazz-the-hitmech, then Jazz vanished, and around a few decacycles later Meister emerged. It's not a huge jump for someone to figure out the connection - Titanium did, when pressed to go looking - but it's not inherently useful information - and Jazz was never a well-known hitmech to begin with. He was a gutter killer - a disposable tool for a gang lord - until he went rogue.
> 
> Ratchet, despite his curmudgeonly old man disguise, hears everything. Mechs get chatty when they're sedated, and he talks to them to keep them distracted - so he knows a lot about the comings and goings of mechs within his little domain. He never uses it, though - the mark of a good medic, and he's a very good medic.
> 
> And yeah - Ratchet spent the money on the tool that would've saved Rico, and had his name etched on a memorial plate on the side. In-universe, it's a useful tool - basically a fake spark chamber that can hold and sustain a spark while repairs are done to the spark chamber itself. Using one is the only way to repair a crack to the very inner layer of a spark chamber, like Rico had - otherwise the tools themselves will conduct charge away from the spark, resulting in destabilization and a rapid death, rather than the slow, leeching one Rico would've gone through if Jazz hadn't shot him. It's also used in routine surgeries, though - even something like a lens replacement - because that way the chamber can be tested before reintroducing the spark to make sure there's no leaks or power disruption. It makes the deadly safe and the safe riskless, if that makes sense, but it's an expensive tool for a clinic.
> 
> Hopefully next chapter up will be the final bit of the Mirage saga, but depending on how long that takes I might do the next chapter of this first (since I can pretty much bang one out in an evening :D) Let me know what you think! Comments sustain me and stop me from eating the first dead pigeon I come across :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more than a centivorn since the last chapter!

>>Look, it’ll be great, Ratchet. Once we get the radioscope calibrated -<<

Ratchet has to reach out to steady the radioscope in question as Wheeljack nearly dismantles it against the doorframe. >>I’m sure it will, though I’m not sure why I need another stress analyser when the sonogram works just fine…<<

>>Imagine, Ratchet! Testing plating at a hundred paces -<<

Ratchet doesn’t bother to hide his grin as Wheeljack carries on - and carries the radioscope into his exam room, safely clearing the higher ceilings of the medbay proper as he turns aside to deactivate the alarms.

He’s not expecting the yelp of surprise from his conjunx - and it has him scrambling to catch up to the inventor.

“Who -” He can feel the spike of alarm from Wheeljack, but it calms almost immediately - “Oh, hey, you’re Jazz, right -” then flares again, pitched high with panic - “wait wait wait wait wait don’t shoot me!”

Before Wheeljack can say anything else, Ratchet is shoving past him, putting his frame between his mate and the threat almost instinctively -

\- and it registers a moment too late how bad an idea that was as a gunshot cracks the air in front of him. The bullet slams into his plating hard - he doubles over, covering the injury, but it’s not deep -

\- and Jazz, in front of him, looks terrified. No, he registers after a moment - horrified.

“Ratchet!” Behind him, Wheeljack is trying to pull him back - Jazz is stepping forwards, wide-opticked, gun forgotten and dropped into subspace - then Wheeljack snarls, low in his chest, the dropped radioscope forgotten - 

“Everybody calm down!” Ratchet lets his heavy engines rumble above the panic in the room before throttling them down. “It was an armor shot, Jackie, I’m fine. Kid - kid, I’m alright. Relax.” Jazz’s gaze flickers from him to Wheeljack and back, and Ratchet reaches towards him carefully. “Jackie isn’t going to hurt you. He’s my conjunx - he’s safe.”

“I - I’m sorry -”

“It’s fine, kid.” >>I’m fine, Jackie. We just startled him.<< Ratchet keeps his touch gentle as he catches Jazz by the wrist - as much to stop him from vanishing out a window once the shock wears off as anything. Still, he tugs him a little closer, until his field is fully overlapping the younger mech’s drawn-taut one. “You didn’t do any harm. Let me get over to a berth, alright? Give me a hand?”

The task-distraction - an old medic classic - has Jazz refocusing readily, helping as best he can as Ratchet limps, a little more than strictly necessary, over to the table. He props himself up on it, then pulls his hand away to examine the wound - nothing more than a glancing gouge in the plating, and a swath of shock-grey nanites. As he examines it, he feels Wheeljack settle, combat protocols cycling down once he’s sure Ratchet is fine - it’s Jazz who needs to be calmed. “See? Not even leaking. Medics get built tough.” 

“I’m sorry -”

“Stop being sorry, and sit down.” Jazz gropes for the nearest chair and sits almost automatically, as Ratchet unsubspaces a can of nanite spray. “You’re fine, kid. Tell me why you’re here.”

“I -” Jazz hesitates, glance flicking guiltily from Ratchet to Wheeljack. “You told me to do an oil change once a decavorn. And - and I have, but I think something was wrong with the last batch - my filter feels all sludged up, and - I don’t have the creds to replace it.”

He trails off, but Ratchet nods gently, setting the spray down. “I’ll take a look. Here - swap with me.” It’s a bit of a scramble to get Jazz onto the berth, but once he’s seated, the filters detach easily enough, and Ratchet starts draining the remaining oil into a pan. “You’ve been doing this yourself? Every decavorn?”

“Yeah.” Jazz hesitates. “Me an’ - I learned how ta do it back with the gang. It’s not too hard - I’m pretty flexible.”

Wheeljack ambles over in pretend ignorance of the way Jazz flinches back, gaze locking onto him. He dips a finger into the used oil, rubbing it over his chemophores with an intrigued look. “Someone’s been selling sweet oil, lately. Didn’t realize it had made it into the medical supply - I got a bad batch in my mechanicals a couple vorns ago.” At Jazz’s confused glance, he clarifies - “Oil contaminated with dihydrogen monoxide. It causes engine knocks, so they add lead - which makes it taste sweet, of course. It’s fine as long as you don’t do anything that requires exertion - any real heat and it comes apart and gasses up your joints.”

“Oh.”

“ _And_ it’ll slag your filters when it does.” Ratchet tosses the filter aside with a huff. “You’ll need a whole new set, kid. _And_ a line flush.”

Jazz makes a soft noise of protest. “I can’t -” 

“Like I said, Jazz. You don’t owe me anything.” Ratchet glances over at Wheeljack. “Could you grab me -” he pings a part file - “Over on the left shelf, middle bottom?”

“Got it,” Wheeljack flashes him a grin and ducks around the corner.

“I shot you,” Jazz offers quietly, again, and Ratchet lets out a soft vent. 

“Did you mean to?”

“No!” A glyph of protest. “But - if I didn’ miss -”

“You didn’t. I’m built for the battlefield, kid. Takes more than a little mech like you trying to put a hole in me to do any real damage.” 

Jazz makes another quiet noise of protest - but mercifully, subsides, as Wheeljack reenters the room, filters in hand. “These right?”

“They’ll do.” They’re not exactly the right size - Polyhexian filters run a half-gauge off most other mech’s, and looking at Jazz’s the young mech is no exception - but they’re close enough that he can cut them down to work. He powers up a scalpel and starts making the neat, precise cuts, adding Polyhexian filters to the order list for the next decaorn’s resupply as he does. “I’m going to trim these to fit - we’ll use one set for the flush, and then send you out with a fresh pair.”

“... Thank you.” Jazz hesitates. “What’s a flush?” 

“Not bad,” Wheeljack takes over, voice reassuring. “I’m gonna set it up over here, look - we’re just going to circulate oil around until we’ve filtered out the last of the dihydrogen. Or most of it, anyways - you’ll burn off any residue yourself.” 

“You can recharge, if you want,” Ratchet adds, scraping a little more off the base of the filter. “It’ll take a bit more than a joor.”

“Right.” But Jazz gives Wheeljack a wary glance. Still - he doesn’t resist as the inventor starts running the flush tubing to his oil tank - or when Ratchet hands him the finished filters to insert.

He’s halfway through cutting the second set when there’s a clatter at the clinic door. “Hey - Doc!”

Jazz is on his pedes in a flash - it’s only millenia of medical experience that lets Ratchet grab him in time to toss him back onto the berth before he can knock the tubing out of his tanks. “Stay here!”

“I have to go -” Jazz is shaking his helm, trying to push him aside. “If they find me here -”

“No one’s going to find you!” Ratchet hisses under his vents. “I’ll lock this room off, no one will think twice about it. Listen, kid - it shouldn’t take a medic for you to know what’ll happen if you try to run out of here on no oil -”

But it’s obvious that that isn’t going to work, Jazz’s whole frame is tight with alarm, and Ratchet tries something else. “Look - keep Jackie safe for me, okay? You have your gun? I’ll go deal with this.”

 _That_ bites through the fear - Jazz gives a terse nod, gun dropping into his hand. “Nomech’ll touch him,” he promises, in a tone that sounds like an oath.

“Good,” Ratchet replies, as amusement curls towards him down the bond. >>Keep an optic on him, okay?<<

>>Of course,<< Wheeljack chuckles back as he lets the door slide shut behind him, clicking the lock as he turns down the hall.

It’s nothing major, thankfully - two mechs, friends, apparently, that have slagged each other, and sit meekly on their opposing berths as he berates them and welds their plating back together. The rest of their gang - the ones who hauled them over, if the rapid-fire back-and-forth of their teasing is anything to go by, stand around peacefully enough, and he lets them explore as long as nothing disappears into subspaces or gets prodded to the point of breaking.

There’s no fuss, though - the one mech who gets handsy with his scanner stops at a snapped command. It’s almost a joor before he can hustle them all back out, still; one of the escorts has a rust infection bubbling just under his paint, and that means inspections for all of them before he sends them back out with a canister of nanites and instructions to dose the whole gang’s fuel.

He checks back in with Wheeljack as he’s wiping his hands down. >>Is he behaving?<<

>>Of course!<< There’s a flicker of eagerness that he recognizes, there - Wheeljack’s been talking about his inventions. >>Did you know he’s a musician?<<

“A musician, huh?” he offers aloud as he pushes the door back open, Jazz’s gaze flicking to him. The hitmech looks - more relaxed than Ratchet has ever seen him, honestly, an animated, eager look in his optics that makes him seem as young as he is, and the gun drops quickly back into subspace when he sees Ratchet is alone.

Still, he doesn’t get much more answer than an embarrassed shrug. “Street performer, really.” 

“What do you play?”

That earns him a huff of laughter as he checks the younger mech’s filters. “Not much.” Jazz hesitates when he gives a curious look. “I sing, mostly. I… used to play the harp, but that was a long time ago. I don’t have one anymore.”

“Mm.” Ratchet considers that for a moment. “Do you want one?”

Another pause, then Jazz shakes his helm. “Something like that - gotta keep it dry.” And that tells Ratchet all he needs to know about Jazz’s current living conditions. “I’d just ruin it.”

“You could keep it here, if you wanted. Pick it up in the morning - drop it off when you’re done. You know how to get in.” He doesn’t push, though, not more than that, and he can see the flicker of _want_ in Jazz’s optics as much as he feels it in the younger mech’s field. “You must have some kind of disguise, if you’re playing on the streets -”

Jazz goes still, then shrugs. “Yeah, I mean -” He falls silent for a moment, optics on Ratchet as if he’s trying to read him, then glances away. “It’s nice o’ you, really. I don’t want to -”

“Next time you’re here.” Ratchet cuts him off before he can say _be any trouble_ or anything else stupid like that. “You’re good to go, by the way - come by in a decavorn and I’ll give your filters another looking over with your next change, but you should be all set. I’ve got plenty of mechs who owe me favors - I’ll see what I can scrounge up.”

“I’ll - yeah.” Jazz seems suitably defeated, and Ratchet fluffs his plating in subtle triumph. “I’ll stop by.”

“Come by sooner, if you want, kid,” Wheeljack tosses in. “I’m not at the clinic often, but I’m sure Ratch wouldn’t mind the company -”

Jazz deflates a little more at that, but the grin - just a little flicker of one - he gives Wheeljack seems genuine. “Yeah - if I’m around.” He glances back at Ratchet, and the grin doesn’t fade. “Thank you - both of you.”

“Stay safe out there,” Ratchet replies, but he can’t tell if Jazz hears him as he shoves the window open and is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no someone got shot.
> 
> Well, we're three chapters in and I think you can tell what the theme of this particular story is. Still, we get a little more WHEELJACK! I love him. Next chapter will be just Jackie and Ratchet I think :D most of it anyways! Ratchet just wants to see more of Jazz, poor mech - he worries, and Jazz is growing on him fast. He's a sucker for a sob story I guess!
> 
> To clarify about maintenance - oil changes are pretty routine for most mechs. They take oil as part of their cyclic diet, but that's more of a top-off - about once a decacycle, the oil reservoir has to be manually dumped and cleaned, then refilled. This can be done by blocking it off (using an inbuilt set of gauges for that) and then cleaning with solvent, which is the cheap way that most mechs do it, or by flushing the whole system with clean oil once or twice, which is the way to do it if there's any sort of real buildup. Oil isn't cheap, though, not when you need so much of it, so that can get pricey. Filters can be cleaned in solvent or clean oil, and are generally reused for centivorns - a middle-class mech would just buy new ones, but there's no real harm to reusing unless there's a hole.
> 
> Because good oil is so pricey, though, there's a whole submarket for recycled oils - mechs take used oil that they buy from hospitals, clinics, and even factories, mix it up into batches, and then filter them until they're clean enough to reuse. It's gross, dirty work, and the products vary wildly in quality, from near-new to completely unusable. Often you can tell what's good or not by sight - but some things, including water contamination, don't show up until the stuff is in your lines and heated. Wet or sweeted oil is particularly noxious - the water emulsifies in, creating a grey slime with the consistency of mayonnaise that fouls filters and ruins them. 
> 
> Basically, it's just another of the traps that poor mechs fall into - buying cheap oil is better than not buying oil, but a bad batch can mean new filters, and that's more expensive than good oil even if it only happens once. Ruined or no filters means clogged oil lines, which means additional wear on delicate joints and eventually major joints - it's part of the reason guttermechs age so fast, and tend to be slow-moving or sluggish. Poor mechs just straight-up wear out faster than better off ones, and regular maintenance is a huge part of that - once you're talking real holistic joint damage, you're past what a clinic can help with.
> 
> So this whole smaller series will probably need a tidying up after it's done, b/c I am still kind of out of it post-surgery and it's kind of hard to string things together when I'm this tired, but that's not a bad thing b/c it means that I can take my time on the main story. I think once I get this next Mirage chapter done it's gonna go pretty quick TBH - I'd *like* to have Mirage, this, and the next segment of the main plot done by Christmas, and I think I've got pretty good odds of pulling it off!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented last chapter! They really do fuel me :D I'll try to get back to some people once I stop falling asleep in the middle of sentences lol. Let me know what you think of this one!


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey - uh, doc?” A hand bangs on the clinic door. “Um, Ratch?”

Ratchet is surprised when, when he unlocks the clinic door, a Polyhexian stumble-pushes his way inside - not one he’s ever seen before. The mech looks up at him with an exhausted grin, but his frame is dented and battered, scrapes of other mech’s paint ground into the dents - despite the late hour, Ratchet is already cataloguing injuries when he reaches down to help support the smaller frame. 

“Here - let’s get you sitting down.” He flicks the locks shut again before helping the white mech limp inside, guiding him towards the back rooms - if whoever’s slagged him is following, the door will hold, hopefully. “Relax, mech, you’re safe. What happened to you?”

“Crossed a couple of other -” The Polyhexian winces as he stumbles, knocking one of his bruises against the wall. “Couple of scavvers. They wanted my ‘hide - got the jump on me.”

“Any sharp pains, or did they just beat the slag out of you?” Ratchet asks, voice pointed, even as he helps the smaller mech lift himself onto an examination berth.

The white mech shrugs - then winces again, glancing away as he reaches up to rub one shoulder. “Nothing too bad. Got me pretty good, though - four on one, wasn’t much I could do but wait it out and take th’ first chance ta book it.”

“It’s good you did.” Ratchet reaches out and takes the mech’s elbow, rotating it carefully through a series of stretches. It doesn’t click, but the look on the Polyhexian’s face says it aches. “Here - let me grab you a pain chit.”

“Thanks, doc.” He steps away and shuffles through another drawer as the Polyhexian continues. “I can’t transform - they dented up my plating pretty bad. You wanted me back fer a look at my filters pretty soon anyways, so… I was hoping you wouldn’t mind poppin’ them back out for me?”

“For a look at your -” He’s very confused, for a moment - pauses in his digging to run through patient files, cross-referencing by colors, then frametype, before finally running a check on due maintenance - “ _Jazz?_ ”

The white mech hesitates, then grins. “Uh - yeah?” Then there’s a little chuckle. “You didn’t - sorry, I thought you realized -”

“Primus, kid!” He scoops up a pain chit and moves back to the berthside, grabbing Jazz’s wrist to slot it into place before checking him over again. Jazz is obliging enough, moving with him obediently as Ratchet examines him for injuries. “What actually happened to you?”

“What I said.” Jazz’s voice is earnest enough, but Ratchet can tell that his disbelief is showing on his face from the way the assassin raises one hand defensively. “No - really. A couple of my neighbors decided my spot under the East River Bridge should be theirs - they jumped me on my way home.”

When Ratchet hisses through his dentae at that, Jazz waves a hand dismissively, optics widening just a little. “Really, doc - it’s not too bad. You should’ve seen the other guys!”

“The other -” It takes just a moment for that to sink in - and for Ratchet to remember _who_ exactly, he’s dealing with. The thought makes his energon chill. “Did you -”

His horror must show on his face, though, because Jazz is already shaking his head. “No! I mean - they’re all fine, they were just huge - I didn’t do anything to them!”

He sounds honest enough - a little panicked, honestly - and Ratchet hesitates, then reaches out to start popping the first dent free. “You didn’t?”

“I swear!” Jazz’s optics are huge and bright. “I just - I wasn’t gonna kill them for jumping me, doc. They were just - I waited ‘til they got distracted and ran for it.”

Ratchet doesn’t say anything for a moment - just focuses on setting the plunger in place and tugs the first dent back into position. “I’m glad, kid. Glad you weren’t hurt.” He sets it on the next one, tugging that out, too, before gesturing, tool in hand, at Jazz’s plating. “What’s all this, then?”

Jazz relaxes, just a bit - then gives a hesitant grin. “My disguise? Mechs would’a caught me ages ago, if I went running around looking like Meister all the time. Back when I was -” He cuts off, the grin fading, and when it returns, it looks a little forced. “Well. I got it back when I was still running with a gang - boss didn’ want mechs to come to him every time I killed for him, so…”

“Mm…” Ratchet examines the repaired plate - flicks it back and forth through a manual transformation, from Meister’s black to this new, glossy white. “It’s well-done. Pricey work.”

“Hope I was worth it.” Jazz’s grin widens a little more when Ratchet barks a laugh. 

“Glad you got something decent out of those fraggers.” He offers - then returns his attention to popping the dents out of Jazz’s plating. It’s quiet for a few kliks, the only sound the pull of metal as he works, as he finishes on the front and guides Jazz onto his side.

Jazz is carefully still as he works, frame relaxing, and Ratchet looks at him more closely - looking past the dents. The smaller mech’s field is loose, but so closely tangled with his own, Ratchet can read the sluggish ripple of tiredness underneath.

“Look.” He hesitates, not wanting to make the younger mech skittish, but the dim set of Jazz’s gaze is enough to push him on. “You were heading home when they jumped you, right? Haven’t recharged yet.”

“Yeah?” Jazz’s voice is questioning, quiet, but not wary, at least.

“This is going to take -” He pauses to evaluate the remaining damage. “At least another joor, maybe two, and then the oil change - why don’t you get some recharge? I don’t need you awake to pull dents, kid.”

Jazz’s smile flickers slightly. “I… shouldn’t.”

“You know I’m not going to hurt you, kid -”

“No!” Jazz cuts him off before he can say anything else. “I mean - it’s not that. It’s - ah -” He hesitates. “I have… nightmares. I don’t…”

 _Oh._ “Kid - Jazz.” Ratchet reaches out gently, pushing comfort into his field as he brushes a hand over Jazz’s cheek. “I’m sorry. But - listen, get some recharge, Jazz. I’ll be right here - I’ll wake you up if you start to panic, alright?”

Jazz hesitates again, meeting his gaze - then gives a small nod. “If you’re sure…”

“I’ll wake you up if anything happens, Jazz,” he assures the smaller mech. “Here -” 

Jazz takes the pillow that Ratchet shoves at him almost awkwardly - but relaxes obediently onto his side to let him keep working. “Thank you…” The mumbled gratitude is quiet, and Ratchet just chuckles as Jazz’s field slows beneath his hands.

It’s nice, working on Jazz as the smaller mech dozes. Quiet, almost rhythmic repairs - the dents are easy enough to pull and straighten, and Jazz’s own nanites will repopulate the scratches quickly enough. He’s done enough oil changes in his life to do one blind, and he’s halfway through a coolant flush and systems rinse by the time his next patient comes in - he sets the machine to finish the flush on automatic, covers Jazz with a blanket, and leaves the sleeping mech to rest as he gets about his day.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s almost evening by the time Jazz wakes up. Ratchet is busy at his workstation, stripping the residue from a collection of still usable fuel valves, when he does - the flicker of surprise in Jazz’s field is enough to alert him, even though the younger mech stays still and silent on the berth.

“Recharge well?” he offers, when it becomes clear that Jazz doesn’t intend to say anything.

There’s a moment more of quiet, then: “Yeah.” Ratchet turns to look at him when Jazz slides upright, one hand curled around the blanket as it drops away. He looks surprised - and there’s a bit of something young and vulnerable in his optics when he meets Ratchet’s gaze. “You let me sleep?”

“You needed it, kid.” Ratchet tucks away the brush he’s been using and rises to his pedes - letting a hand rub Jazz’s shoulder when he’s close enough to reach. “Especially if you’re going to have to find somewhere new to live. No one’s going to have missed you?” he adds as an afterthought, but Jazz shakes his helm.

“Nah - it’s fine. I just -” He shrugs. “Been a while since I got a proper sleep, I guess. Thanks for letting me stick around.”

“Anytime.” Ratchet hesitates. “Do you - need somewhere? I don’t have overnight patients often, and you know how to let yourself in -” he waves at the window, and Jazz huffs a little laugh. “If you ever need a safe berth -”

“I’ll - keep it in mind, yeah.” But there’s some reluctance there, just under the surface. “I’m trouble, doc. You probably shouldn’t want me around.”

“Trouble.” Ratchet snorts. “You didn’t even point a gun at me this time, kid. _Trouble._ The only trouble you’ve given me -” and Jazz’s optics widen, a little, when Ratchet points at him, “- is worrying if you’ve gotten yourself slagged. You’re all set, medically speaking - try to swing by a little more often, though, alright? Let an old medic know you’re alright.”

“I can -” Jazz slides to his pedes carefully. “I can do that. Yeah.” His gaze flickers to the door. “I should get going.”

“Sure. Shoo.” But Ratchet smiles at him, anyways, and Jazz seems almost surprised. “I want you back in a centivorn, though - if you can’t make the time to get back here sooner.”

“Yeah.” And Jazz gives him a hesitant smile back. “Y’know, I’ll - I’ll see what I can do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Jazz. Sleeping in a mech's clinic? Soon enough you're going to be as domesticated as a housecat. What a tragedy. It really do be like that, though... by the main plot Jazz really is just an outdoor cat, going out to kill birds and woo the ladies and coming back to eat dry food out of a bowl every night.
> 
> And occasionally getting the shit stomped out of him by raccoons I guess :D
> 
> I have been... so busy, friends. Hopefully in the new year I will be in my new job! But I want to get this and at least another chapter up by Aardmas :D And I'm still hoping I can have this and mirage done by new years. If not, though, merry christmas to all, and a late chag sameach!


	5. Chapter 5

“He reminds you of Drift, doesn’t he?” Wheeljack asks.

It’s - _the_ question, really, the one Ratchet’s been asking himself for cycles. He lets out a long, steady vent.

“No.”

He can tell it surprises Wheeljack - the inventor props himself up a little more, optics brightening from the sleepy blue fade they had been only a moment earlier. “No?”

“He’s not - he’s nothing like Drift. Not really.” He huffs again. “Not like Drift was at the start. You never knew him as Deadlock - he was… cold. Bitter. Jazz isn’t -”

“I didn’t say he was like Deadlock, Ratch.” Wheeljack’s voice is gentle, coaxing, and Ratchet can’t meet his gaze.

“Fine. Yes. He’s a lot like -” _like Drift, Drift in the army, Drift happy and free and -_ “like Drift. He’s a good kid.” 

“Mm.” Wheeljack doesn’t sound convinced. “He took the harp, then?”

“He played it a little for me. Seemed to know what he was doing.” He pings Wheeljack the file, and the inventor hums appreciatively. “Hopefully he can make a little more off of that than just singing.”

“Hopefully.” Wheeljack pauses significantly - pauses like he wants Ratchet to know it’s significant. “So… Kid’s been sleeping in your clinic for the last, what, five vorn? When are you going to take him under your wing, Ratch?” 

Ratchet can _taste_ the way Wheeljack keeps the question carefully casual. He misinterprets it just as carefully, shrugging dismissively. “Just a few cycles an orn - and much as I believe form doesn’t designate function, I don’t think he _wants_ medic training, Jackie.”

“You know what I mean.” Wheeljack sits up, which means that it’s going to be a _talk_ and Ratchet huffs and leans back against him - lets out a soft rumble of satisfaction when Wheeljack picks up one of his hands and begins to knead at the joints. “Kid’s doing good work - he just needs somemech keeping an optic on him. Making sure he doesn’t get killed.”

“I’ll weld him back together as often as he needs.” Wheeljack works gently at a too-tense cable, pulling out a slim pick to work at a bit of caught mesh between the gears, and Ratchet slumps even more, purring engine-deep. “I don’t know what else I can do for him, Jackie. He’s a hitmech.”

“An assassin,” Wheeljack corrects absently. “A kid. What does he know about gang politics, Ratch? You could help him be _useful._ ”

The flood of disgust flushes through him like a wave, viceral and hot. “ _No._ ” He can tell the vehemence of it surprises Wheeljack - the inventor pulls back slightly to look at him, helm flickering. “No - I’m not going to -”

He cuts himself off, not sure, exactly, what to say.

“Not going to what?” And Wheeljack has never been one to miss pushing an offensive. Can’t be, arguing with Ratchet - any weakness is a crack to slide a wedge into. “Not going to help him? Not going to overlook his _murderous ways?_ Because Ratch, I have some news for you -”

“I’m not going to _make him into a tool!_ ” Ratchet hisses the word. “Whatever grudge I have with the ganglords is -”

“They _killed his brother,_ Ratchet! Primus!” Wheeljack cuts him off ruthlessly, waving a hand. “Like he’s going to mind you having a strut of your own to pick with them! Like he’s going to be anything but grateful for the help!”

“He wouldn’t be.” Ratchet almost growls it. “But - that doesn’t make it _right,_ Wheeljack.”

Wheeljack gives him a long, calculating look - then his optics soften, just a little, and his shoulders slump. “You think he’s going to - what, move on?” Ratchet doesn’t answer, and he pushes. “Just - what? Decide to do something else with his life?”

“He _should!_ ” That’s enough to make Ratchet snarl. “He - _deserves to,_ Wheeljack. He could have a _life -_ but he’ll never even consider it if there’s another mech pushing him on, making him feel like this is anything more than his own grudge -”

“What kind of life? This city is _fragged._ ” The inventor waves a hand outward as if framing the city skyline through the walls. “ _Cybertron_ is fragged. Let the kid live for something!”

“Let him die for something, you mean.” Wheeljack flinches back as if slapped, and Ratchet can feel his own gaze hardening. “Because _this will kill him,_ Wheeljack. And I just - don’t ask that of me. Please.”

 _Not again_ goes unsaid between them, for a long, quiet klik.

Then Wheeljack huffs - stands to collect something from the dresser, a bundle wrapped in mesh. “Next time you see him, then - make sure he gets that.”

“What -” But as soon as he takes it, Ratchet can feel the metal under the mesh, the distinctive weight of - “A gun? Jackie -”

“He’s going to get himself killed with that little toy he’s been using. That’ll at least give him a fighting chance the next time he goes up against someone with real plating.”

“If he gets caught with this -”

“Please.” Wheeljack’s snort is dismissive. “As if I don’t know how to anonymize a custom. Shockwave’s the only mech on Cybertron that even knows I’m using that casement, and even these days he’s smart enough to know that the proper answer to ‘do you know who makes these guns’ is ‘no, officer, I’ve never seen a gun in my life.’”

“That’s…” Probably accurate, admittedly, even if Ratchet doesn’t want to admit it.

“Tell him there’s more where that came from, if he wants it.” Wheeljack glances away, not meeting his optics, but his face and field have a mulish set. “I’ll meet him at the range, if he wants - help him get a handle on firing that thing without taking his own arm off. But - Ratch -”

“I’ll tell him.” Ratchet cuts him off before he can say anything else - then hesitates. “And - I’ll think about… it, Jackie. Just - come back to berth?” 

“Of course.” Wheeljack settles into the berth again, curled into Ratchet’s side, and his fingers are gentle as he picks up the medic’s hand again and goes back to gently massaging it. “It’s going to be alright,” he offers, softly, after another klik.

“I know.” Ratchet reaches up with his free hand to pet the inventor’s finials, letting his engine settle into a warm rumble again. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot woot woot woot
> 
> And we're done - for now, at least! I have to admit Ratchet's POV is much harder than Prowl's or even Ironhide's, and I'm not 100% thrilled with how this came out, but I'm pretty happy with it~ yeah, Ratchet is being stubborn... you will notice a Tendency of that, perhaps. Wheeljack is a good influence, though :D I may poke this some more in the AM, I'm very tired atm and this chapter just wasn't coming together for me...
> 
> Ratchet is just hoping Jazz will give it up and go do something else with his life. It's a lot harder to stop doing something if you feel like someone else is relying on you, though... so Ratchet is kind of stuck - he doesn't want to help b/c that will make Jazz feel needed, but at the same time Jazz definitely needs help and Ratchet doesn't want him to get hurt...
> 
> There will be a part II of this at some point - probably the same format, but after they start working together, covering their first work as a team through Prowl kidnapping Jazz. I'm thinking first mission, meeting Red, a mission w/ red, the leadup to the first Prowlnapping, and then the Jazznapping. That'll be a bit off, though!
> 
> Anyways, merry Aardmas (the anniversary of me!) and a good new year to all!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So, this is going to be a teeny weenie little series, I promise. It's just this whole Jazz-Meeting-Ratchet fic has been bouncing around for AGES bugging me to write it, so I'm finally going to. It's gonna be a bunch of shorter, 1-2k word chapters focused on just the two of them, and I'm gonna be working on the main story too - these are gonna be a bit less polished because of that.
> 
> I figure this will be around 4, maybe 5, chapters, all from Ratchet's POV, and less than 10k words total. 
> 
> Also, this will probably not be as much of a downer as the first chapter implies. Future meetings will involve 100% less dead brother, for one thing~!


End file.
